


Inevitable

by lenaballena



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenaballena/pseuds/lenaballena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre, Courfeyrac thinks absently, is probably the worst thing that's ever happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> for some reason i thought to myself: what if i took a bunch of college au meet-cutes and smushed them together
> 
> and this is what came out of that

“What are you doing?”

Courfeyrac looks up slowly, unsure if he’s being spoken to. Standing in front of him is a scowling, nerd-like individual, glasses hung low on his nose and a hand poised on the strap of his leather bag, eyes glaring a clear challenge down at Courfeyrac. So he _is_ being spoken to, then.  

“Um,” Courfeyrac says slowly, glancing down at where he had been arranging his pens according to color on top of his notebook. “Sitting?”

The guy huffs at him, gesturing to Courfeyrac’s seat. “In my spot.”

“There’s no assigned seating in this class.” Courfeyrac responds easily, turning away from the other man and beginning to rifle through his backpack, trying to find his phone so he can turn it off before the lecture begins.

There’s a beat of silence, long enough that Courfeyrac thinks the guy has given up and walked away, before he says, slowly, like maybe English isn’t Courfeyrac’s first language, “I’ve sat in that seat since the _beginning of the semester_.”

Courfeyrac looks up at Mr. Spectacles-And-A-Sweater-Vest. Okay, he gets it. This is the guy’s spot. Any other day, if asked politely, he might move. Today, however, he tried to get to class twenty minutes early to avoid his ex who broke up with him the week before, scarfed down his breakfast so fast he barely tasted it, spilled half a cup of coffee over his book bag (which contained in it his incredibly expensive psych textbook _and_ the notebook he uses to take notes in _every lecture he has_ ), and raced across campus just to _get to class at the same time as her anyway._ If Mr. I’ve Got A Stick Up My Ass The Size Of Kentucky had just chosen another day, Courfeyrac would probably have found another seat, instead of staring him dead in the eye and deadpanning, “And I’m sitting in it now.” 

The other guy just stares at him, raising a single eyebrow like he can’t _possibly_ believe Courfeyrac’s audacity. “Are you physically incapable of moving to another seat?”

“Are _you_?”

He lets out a low half-growl, then sighs, long-suffering and drawn out, like a man who’s been told time and again about the virtues of staying calm and not antagonizing people, “I would really appreciate it if you would let me sit in that spot.” A beat. “ _Please_.”

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. “Dude, just sit down. It _doesn’t matter_. In fact-“ Courfeyrac is cut off by the lights dimming, then flicking back up, a sign from the professor that class is beginning. She starts to address the class, outlining what they’ll be covering for the next hour and fifteen minutes, and Courfeyrac flips open his book and prepares to take notes. The man, still staring incredulously and angrily at Courfeyrac, finally shuts his mouth and sits down between Courfeyrac and some girl who had been watching their conversation with interest. They don’t speak to each other for the rest of the lecture, and when it ends, they stand up and leave in different directions without exchanging a word, though Courfeyrac is pretty sure he heard the guy muttering angrily under his breath about him at least twice. He glances down at the seat, number 32 in row H, and wonders why the hell it mattered so much.

\---

Two hours later and Courfeyrac’s day has not improved in the slightest. In fact, it’s probably gotten worse. His best friend, Enjolras, and he both have jobs at the only place that was hiring on campus: a little chicken-and-fries booth in the student building run by a local franchise. Enjolras got him the job, and Courfeyrac is very grateful to him for it sometimes, when he forgets about the humiliating hat he has to wear, the unspeakable things the grease does to his hair, and the way his (now ex) girlfriend had not-so-kindly told him that he smelled like chicken even hours after his shift and it was kind of starting to gross her out. But a job’s a job, and since his parents aren’t paying for anything other than tuition anymore, he’ll happily take what he can get. At least, that’s what he thought before the fryer stopped working, someone stole all of their napkins and straws, and he had to argue with some frat dude about the precise meaning of the phrase ‘that item has been taken off the menu, sir’. Tired and irritated, Courfeyrac looks up as the three girls he vaguely recognized from a couple of parties at the Alpha Chi house step aside and Anal Lecture Hall Guy (as Courfeyrac has been calling him in his internal rants) steps up to the counter.

“Oh, _great_.” He mutters, any semblance of professionalism gone the minute he sees the way ALHG’s lips are turned up in a quiet smirk as he looks pointedly at Courfeyrac’s chicken hat. “What do you want?” He grumbles, before Enjolras, manning the register next to him with a charming, welcoming smile as fake as the cheese on the nachos in the booth next to them, kicks him in the leg. “ _Urgh_ \- I mean, how can I help you?" 

He doesn’t say anything about Courfeyrac’s hat or his now-deflated hair, but his eyes are smug and superior as he orders two large fries. Fucker.

“You’re not getting chicken.” Courfeyrac says, irritatedly, as soon as ALHG finishes spelling out his order in his self-satisfied voice. “There are twelve booths in this place, all of which have fries. Why come here if you aren’t even getting _chicken_?”

Enjolras shoots Courfeyrac a look from beside him, which he ignores because honestly, Enjolras is in no position to judge considering the amount of customers he’s driven away for arguing with, or sometimes just blatantly insulting. The man is charming, when he wants to be, but he’s also kind of an asshole. Courfeyrac is too, though, so they work well together. Courfeyrac sighs, punching in ALHG’s order. “Fine, whatever, can I get a name for the order?”

“Combeferre.” He says easily, and _god_ , Courfeyrac wishes he could mock him for having the name of a two hundred year old french man but, well, strangely, that seems kind of common, and it’s not like he’s in a position to judge. Courfeyrac does his best to misspell it on the receipt though, out of spite. 

 ---

The next day Courfeyrac wakes up earlier than normal, because his lit professor’s office hours are from nine to ten thirty, and he really does need to beg on his hands and knees for an extension on a paper. The office is across campus, so he tries to get an early start, giving himself what he thinks is an adequate amount of time to shower, dress, and get some breakfast. But, thanks to being roommates with Bossuet, his own inherent inability to time things correctly, and the fact that he’s never actually been to his professor’s office before and gets horribly lost along the way, he rushes into the waiting area at just after ten o’clock, when he had been aiming for nine-fifteen.

Breathless and unblinking, he can’t really do anything but gape as Combeferre looks up at him from the front desk. 

“Oh.” Combeferre says, sounding a lot happier than Courfeyrac feels. Bastard. “Did you want to see Dr. Lucero?” He makes a show of frowning exaggeratedly. “She’s with another student right now, and they just went in, will probably be in there a while. You’re welcome to wait, but maybe you should consider showing up earlier next time.”

“But,” He says weakly, “It’s _important_.”

“Oh really.” Combeferre’s voice pulls at the words, drawing them out with sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “Well that changes everything, doesn’t it? I didn’t realize this was _important_ , why don’t you just go in now and _demand_ the extension on your paper- but make sure to let her know it’s _important_.”

Courfeyrac freezes, watching as Combeferre rolls his eyes and goes back to typing, before he manages to stammer out, “How did you know I wanted an extension?”

Combeferre tilts his head up to look at him and snorts. “Lucky guess. Though you might as well just leave now; she’s going to say no, don’t waste your time.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Courfeyrac says, crossing his arms and steeling his gaze, and in response Combeferre simply raises the most judgmental eyebrow Courfeyrac has ever seen in his life. 

“Fine.” He says finally, adjusting his unflattering glasses on his irritating nose. “Take a seat. You’re good at that.”

Courfeyrac considers throwing a book at him, just to see the satisfying way it would bounce off his forehead.

In the end, Dr. Lucero has just enough time to meet with him, in which she tells him very plainly that he can’t ask for an extension on something that's been on the syllabus since the beginning of the semester, not a day before it's due. She gets his name wrong twice, and apologizes very sweetly for it, but it only reinforces the well-known fact that professors just don’t give special treatment to students they don’t know. He’s _positive_ that Teacher’s Pet Combeferre could get an extension any damn time he wanted. He leaves the office, somehow even more irritated than he had been going in, and Combeferre’s smug face is waiting outside for him.  

“Have a _great_ rest of your day.” He says, as Courfeyrac stomps past him, just barely refraining from flipping him off as he goes.

 --- 

On Wednesday, Courfeyrac is early for something for probably the first time in his life as he stands outside the doors to the lecture hall, a Chai latte steaming in his hands, and waits patiently as the TA for the sociology lecture unlocks the door. “Even _I_ don’t want to be here this early.” He mutters, as he pushes open the door to the hall, and Courfeyrac shrugs.

“I just don’t want anyone else to take my spot.” He says, with his brightest smile, and the TA gives him a look of pure uninterested disdain before moving across the hall to open the doors on the other side.

He has to wait half an hour in an empty lecture hall, but it’s more than worth it for the look on Combeferre’s face when he walks up to Courfeyrac, who’s been using the extra time to work on his lit paper. Courfeyrac looks up at him, from seat 32, and smiles his best I-win-you-lose-fucking- _fight-me_ smile. “ _Sorry_ ,” He says, with a pronounced pout. “This seat’s taken.”

\---

You’d figure, that after staying up until four in the morning bullshitting a paper and meeting your mortal enemy in a sociology lecture, the universe would let you off the hook and make sure the rest of your week was lovely and pleasant. As Courfeyrac puts out the fire in his dorm room by hitting it repeatedly with his roommate’s towel, he comes to the conclusion that the universe simply hates him.

“… was that my fault?” Bossuet says sheepishly from across the room where he stands, shirtless and with a burned-off eyebrow.

Courfeyrac sighs, and tilts his head back to look at his roommate, whom he adores, even though the guy seems to be a new kind of natural disaster previously unknown to science. “I’m totally ready to blame faulty wiring and fate if you are.”

Bossuet creeps slowly across the room to stand behind Courfeyrac, looking warily at the hot plate like his mere proximity might cause it to burst into flame again. He groans dramatically, throwing himself onto his bed, where he lands with a soft thump on his completely unironic Star Wars blanket. “That’s not even _mine_.”

“Whose is it?” Courfeyrac calls, cautiously, wielding the towel like a weapon (he’s not going to say there isn’t a chance the hot plate will spontaneously combust again; anything’s possible when you live with Bossuet) as he steps towards the hot plate and slowly unplugs it. 

Bossuet makes a pained noise, which is somewhat muffled by the blanket. “There’s a possibility I’m a little in love with a pre-med downstairs. I’ve been trying to ask him for his number for almost a week now.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Courfeyrac says, sitting down on Bossuet’s bed and patting him on the back with a smile. “The quickest way to a man’s heart is by blowing up a piece of his contraband cookery.”

Bossuet, still face down on the bed, lifts his arm to feel for Courfeyrac, hand ghosting over his elbow, then upper arm, and finally setting on his shoulder, which he shoves, chuckling into the blanket as he hears Courfeyrac fall over with a soft thump. Courfeyrac makes a noise of protest that Bossuet ignores as he slowly pushes himself off the bed. “Well, I should go tell him what happened.” He groans reluctantly. “Maybe he’ll think it’s cute that I destroyed his property and ask me out.” Bossuet says this, like he does most things, without a hint of sarcasm. He always looks on the bright side with ridiculous sincerity, which is one of the things that make it impossible for Courfeyrac to be mad at him, even when he’s trying to get melted cheese out of the light fixtures (don’t ask).

“Um,” Courfeyrac says slowly, still comfortably splayed out across the bed. “I would _maybe_ wait a few days.”  

Bossuet shakes his head, scrounging through his drawers for a shirt. “No, I promised I’d have it back to him before tomorrow. I’ve kept it long enough.”

Sighing, Courfeyrac lifts himself from the bed and steps in front of his friend, placing two steadying but gentle hands on his shoulders. “Boss, there’s no easy way to tell you this. But as your friend, it is my duty to inform you,” He pauses for dramatic effect as Bossuet sighs impatiently. “You only have one eyebrow.”

 ---

After a good ten minutes of Bossuet bemoaning his fate and Courfeyrac suggesting he just shave the other one off, tattoo new eyebrows on, tie a red bandana around his head and call it a day, then another five minutes of Bossuet begging Courfeyrac to return the broken thing in his place so his hot med student boy doesn’t see his tragic lack of facial hair, and then a minute and a half of Bossuet bribing Courfeyrac with cheese puffs and every Dr. Pepper in the minifridge, Courfeyrac gives in and scoops the broken hot plate into his arms. Bossuet gives him the guy’s room and floor number and sends him on his way (‘wait, what’s the guy’s name again?’ ‘um, yeah, if you could find out what it is and tell me I’d really appreciate it’ ‘you don’t- no, you know what, I’m not even surprised’). He climbs down the few flights of stairs to the second floor, trying to work out the best way of saying ‘my roommate is a walking fire hazard and his mere presence destroyed your hot-plate’ as he strolls down the hall, stopping at room 2032. He had Bossuet write down the number four times, just so there was no possible confusion, and even so he double checks before knocking, just to make sure.

He isn’t even really surprised when Combeferre opens the door.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Given his week thus far, he realizes he _should_ have expected Combeferre to be waiting on the other side of the door when he knocked, so it doesn’t really faze him. What is shocking is that this is someone Bossuet labeled as ‘ _hot_ ’. He gets that the whole Librarian Kink does it for some people, but Combeferre isn’t even _attractive_. Sure, he’s got deep, almost black eyes that glint enticingly from behind his glasses, and a strong, defined jawline, and full, pink lips that open to reveal perfect, white teeth, but he’s- well, he’s an asshole, and Courfeyrac’s mortal enemy, and Bossuet should have better taste.

“Why is it,” Combeferre says, slowly, with a long suffering sigh, “That before this week I had no idea you existed, and now I can’t even escape you in my own _dorm?”_

Courfeyrac apparently doesn’t have a better response for that than, “It’s not like I _want_ to be here,” spoken with the air of a petulant teenager going through their Rebellious Phase. In response to Combeferre’s raised eyebrow, he continues, “My roommate broke your hot plate. Well, he plugged it in and it caught fire.”  

Combeferre stares at him for a second, before his eyes widen slightly in realization. “Joly,” He calls, turning back into the room, “The asshole from my sociology class broke your hot plate.”

And, alright, Courfeyrac’s not denying the asshole part, but, “ _I_ didn’t break it, _my roommate_ did. Pay attention.”

With a indignant glare, Combeferre opens his mouth, no doubt to give some scathing retort, before the door swings open beside him to reveal someone who can only be the object of Bossuet’s affections. Hair sticking up in all directions like a wannabe Einstein and wearing what looks to be a pair of pajamas adorned with dinosaur puns, he’s hardly what Courfeyrac would consider ‘hot’; maybe ‘cute’ or ‘endearing’, but maybe he and Bossuet just _really_ don’t have the same taste in men. “Oh, hello,” Joly says, with a wide, dimpled smile. “Asshole from Combeferre’s sociology class.” He turns to Combeferre and stage-whispers, “ _You didn’t tell me he was cute._ ”

Combeferre blinks at Joly, then back to Courfeyrac, who is smiling the most self-satisfied smile he can manage, and apparently considers that phrase too ludicrous to warrant a response, because he rolls his eyes at both of them and strides past Joly into the room, closing the door with a thud behind him. 

“Don’t mind him.” Joly says with a smile that manages to be even brighter than the last. “He’s just having a grumpy week.” His gaze shifts to the plastic bag containing his infamously inflammable hot plate, and frowns with wide, puppy-dog eyes. “It broke?" 

Courfeyrac hesitates; while Combeferre has the power to ruin Courfeyrac’s entire day with just his face, Joly looks like the human embodiment of sunshine on a cloudy day, and Courfeyrac suddenly just really, _really_ doesn’t want to be the one returning his broken hot plate to him. “Uh, yeah, there was- my roommate plugged this in and it kind of- exploded? A little.”  

“Oh no,” Joly says, almost coos, eyes wide with concern. “Is he okay?” 

“Oh, fit as a fiddle.” Courfeyrac hurries to say, “He was on fire for like, ten seconds, tops. Honestly, he’s used to it at this point.”

Joly raises an eyebrow that’s so distinctly Combeferre, yet without that I’m-better-than-you-in-every-way-imaginable air Combeferre seems to have a personal monopoly on. “Does he… light himself on fire often?”

“No, god, he’s not like a pyromaniac or something, usually it’ll just be like, minor head injuries and mysterious laundry-related incidents.”

“Laundry-“

“Really better if he explains that one, actually.” Courfeyrac interrupts, because Bossuet does tell the story a lot better than he does, and, in an attempt to salvage whatever the hell is happening between Joly and Bossuet that involves wooing by means of forbidden kitchen appliances, continues, “He’s really an optimist about things though; he said to me before I came over here, ‘yeah, I lost an eyebrow, but at least I got to meet Joly’.” Blatant, poorly-phrased lie, but it does the job.

If Courfeyrac thought Joly’s smile was big before, it has _nothing_ on the way he lights up then, beaming at Courfeyrac like he’s just won the lottery. “Really, he- he said that? Well, I was really glad to meet, um-“ Joly bites down on his lower lip, flushing red. “This is really embarrassing, but I don’t remember his name?”

Oh god, they really are perfect for each other. “It’s Bossuet.” He notes the sheepish look on Joly’s face and says, with a soft chuckle, “Don’t worry, I understand, I guess it’s easy to get distracted by all his gorgeousness, right?" 

Which was, if the way Joly’s face goes from sheepish yet happy to mortified in a matter of seconds is anything to go by, the exact wrong thing to say. “Oh.” He says quietly. “So, are you two, like, together?”

“Oh _god_ no.” Courfeyrac denies immediately, before backtracking quickly. “I mean, he’s awesome, amazing listener, completely gorgeous, perfect for two AM viewings of The Incredibles in footie pajamas, but we’re just friends. He’s totally single.” He finishes lamely, but Joly brightens immediately; the boy’s gonna have some serious wrinkles if he makes a habit of smiling this widely all the time. 

“Oh, that’s great!” He chirps, before backtracking, “I mean, not that I- it’s not great that you two aren’t dating, but it’s also not… not great? I mean, you can date, not that you’d need my permission, that’s presumptuous and weird, and-” Joly falters, before deflating visibly and sighing, “Scale of one to ten how obvious am I?”

Courfeyrac considers the question. “Do you want the honest or nice answer?” Joly makes a sort of grimace, but the smile doesn’t disappear, and Courfeyrac shrugs. “Really, I think subtlety is overrated, especially when it comes to Bossuet. I love the walking safety hazard, but he can be a bit oblivious.”

Joly considers his words as he chews absently at his lip. “Then, um, maybe I could give you my number to give to him?”

Courfeyrac blinks at Joly, wondering if he’s kidding. The uncertain, obviously earnest expression on his face tells him he’s completely serious, and, well. Not _exactly_ what Courfeyrac meant about a lack of subtlety, but it’s a start.

 --- 

The next time they have sociology, Combeferre arrives fifteen minutes before the start of class, and stares at Courfeyrac as he smiles up at him from their coveted seat.

Inhaling slowly in exasperation, Combeferre says in a low voice, “Exactly _how_ early do you arrive to class just to spite me?”

Courfeyrac gives him a one-shoulder shrug in response, smirking at him over the lid of his tea. “Early enough.”

“Is all this really worth it?” Combeferre asks, fingers sliding under his glasses to rub at the corner of his eye in annoyance. “It’s just a seat.”

“Well, sure, at first.” Courfeyrac nods exaggeratedly. “But I’ve come to realize this is the best seat in the hall. In the middle of the row, so the teacher can see me, and close enough to the whiteboard that I don’t have to squint to read it, but not so close that I have to deal with annoying front row kids. Plus, I can clearly see the clock without turning my head so it’s not obvious how often I check the time. Also it’s comfy, and I get your wonderful grumpy face looking at me like I just shot you in the foot.” Courfeyrac finishes with a wide smile, patting the seat next to him. “You’re welcome to sit in the adjacent and inferior seat, if you want.”

Combeferre gives him a long, appraising look before blinking, tired and disgruntled, and sitting down slowly beside him, pulling out a notebook of meticulously organized notes and flipping to a blank page.

“Really?” Courfeyrac asks, blinking confusedly at him. “Didn’t take you for someone who gave up that easy.” 

He doesn’t even bother looking at Courfeyrac. “I’m not, but I know how to pick my battles.” Combeferre says simply, clicking his pen significantly. “I’ve been dealing with entitled trust fund kids for years, I know your type; you’ll get bored of this soon enough.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t _say_ that he’ll give up when he’s dead and even then he’ll asked to be buried with the goddamn seat, but it’s a near thing. Instead, he leans back in his chair and slips one of his headphones into his ear, content to drown out Combeferre’s irritated muttering until the beginning of class. He supposes it must look a bit odd to the TA, that the only two people in the lecture hall fifteen minutes before class choose to sit next to each other and then proceed to completely ignore each other except for occasional murderous glares.  

Later, around halfway into class, Courfeyrac is happily doodling on the margins of his notes, wondering if it’d be too much to kick Combeferre’s tree legs out of where they’ve been slowly edging into his seat space, when he hears the fateful words: “Alright, let’s have a few pairs of people come down here for a demonstration”, and he just _knows_. From the way his body stiffens next to Courfeyrac, he’s pretty sure Combeferre senses what’s about to happen as well.

Sure enough, the TA starts picking pairs of students, and Courfeyrac has to wonder if he secretly harbors some blood feud against Courfeyrac, because he doesn’t pause for a second before he chooses Combeferre and Courfeyrac first, beckoning them to the front of class. Two other pairs of students are chosen, and they’re all meant to demonstrate the effect sociological issues have on marriages. Of fucking _course_. Couples A and B go first, then finally they’re given their assignment as Couple C: “A middle-class couple who met through a mutual friend, together for a year and a half before getting married.” Their professor reads the assignment enthusiastically, obviously under the impression she’s encouraging their learning process rather than forging another chain in a link of hatred. “Why wouldn’t your marriage work, statistically speaking?”

Oh, yeah. Courfeyrac must have done something _really_ messed up in another life to deserve this.  

Next to him, Combeferre clears his throat and addresses the teacher, very matter-of-fact, “Well, the leading cause of divorce in this country is basic incompatibility.” He glances at Courfeyrac. “A year and a half is hardly enough time to get to know someone or decide whether or not the two of you will be compatible for the rest of your lives.”

“Yeah, imagine waking up one morning and realizing you’ve married a man who wears sweater vests.” Courfeyrac mutters, eliciting a low chorus of laughter from the front rows. Combeferre narrows his eyes at him, but Courfeyrac continues, with a glance to the professor, “But another common reason for divorce is financial problems, due in part to the job market decline and financial downturn. Assuming, from the sweater vest, of course, that he works as either a professor or owner of a bookstore, I assume we’d fight about money a lot.”

“Astute.” Combeferre nods, eyes carefully blank, but Courfeyrac isn’t deluded enough to think Combeferre _actually_ agrees with him. No one ever says ‘astute’ without an undertone of ‘I fucking hate you’. “Especially since you seem to be more of the stay-at-home type, and I’d be the sole financial provider.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes narrow. Combeferre might _say_ stay-at-home type, but he knows he _means_ lazy-unemployed-trust-fund-kid. And not only is that rude and presumptuous but Courfeyrac doesn't even _have_ a goddamn trust fund. “Well, of _course_ ,” He drawls, glancing back to the professor, who’s nodding in interest. “Someone has to take care of the kids.”

“Oh, we have kids now?” Combeferre says, voice simultaneously amused and dangerous.

“Sure,” Courfeyrac turns to the professor, with a smile. “Since another reason for conflict within marriages is conflicting ideas about children. He won’t want them, I will, suddenly all of his dreams of traveling the world and crying about the Library of Alexandria will be put on hold while we raise a kid.” The professor looks uncomfortable now, like she’s questioning her decision to assign the demonstration, but Courfeyrac presses on. “He’ll resent them, and me, shut us out, he’ll never be around, always working late to have an excuse to-”

“Infidelity.” Combeferre says, abruptly cutting off Courfeyrac as he almost growls out, “Another cause of divorce. While I work to provide for the family he’ll be bringing strangers into our bed, maybe even some coworkers of mine.”

Courfeyrac blinks at him, feeling a rush of anger and nausea curl up at the pit of his stomach. “God, do you have to be such an _asshole_?”

Combeferre snorts. “You’re talking about how I’m going to emotionally neglect our imaginary children and _I’m_ the asshole?”

“You’ve _always_ been the asshole, you pretentious _ass_. Ever s-”

Their professor claps her hands together and says “Okay,” loudly enough to cut off Courfeyrac, who tries to look apologetic and glare at Combeferre simultaneously. She walks to the front of the room and calls loudly, “Discussion questions and readings are posted on the course site, see you next time.” Glancing back to Courfeyrac and Combeferre she adds off-handedly, “And deal with your issues _outside_ of class, please.”

\---

“-and he’s just, like, ridiculously out of my league, you know? Like he’s smart, and funny, and kind- did I mention he works at a rescued animal shelter?” 

Enjolras sighs from where he sits, leaning against Courfeyrac’s side and browsing articles on his phone.“Only a couple dozen times. Which, by the way, is nothing compared to the amount of times you’ve used the phrase ‘I want to ask him out, but I just _can’t_ ’.”

Bossuet pouts at Enjolras from across the bed before muttering, “Well at least I’ve never googled ‘how to sound smart when talking about art’." 

Mouth falling open, Enjolras leans forward to kick at Bossuet’s feet, fuzzy duck socks connecting with a denim-clad leg as he says, “That was _one time_ , and we agreed to never speak of it again.” Courfeyrac snorts in amusement; most people are under the impression that Enjolras is a very serious person, one who is too cool to care about anything but justice and activism. Most people have never been aggressively shushed by Enjolras for daring to interrupt him while he’s watching the Emperor’s New Groove in the bright red onesie Jehan bought him for his birthday. “Besides,” He half-grunts, still stretching to kick at Bossuet, who’s curled up on the edge of his bed, clutching a bag of chips to his chest and trying to escape Enjolras’ attack. “We can’t _all_ stalk someone until they give us a hotplate to blow up.”

“Children, behave yourselves.” Courfeyrac says tonelessly, dropping the bag of cheddar bunnies onto Enjolras’ chest in an attempt to placate him. “And we all know the award for most pathetic seduction attempt goes to _me,_ thank you very much _._ ”

Bossuet considers for a second, pursing his lips. “Well, I’m not sure if yelling at someone about your fictional dysfunctional marriage in front of your sociology class counts as _pathetic_ , but definitely ill-conceived.”

In response, Courfeyrac makes a series of unintelligible indignant and flabbergasted noises before finally managing to choke out the words, “God, no, I meant- the _Gardening Incident,_ not - I am _not_ trying to seduce Combeferre.”

“Mm-hmm.” Bossuet says, a knowing look in his eyes. “You know, he’s not _that_ bad, Courf. He’s got an excellent sense of humor, for one thing.”

“Definitely, remember that thing he said about the Phi Delt fra-“ Enjolras starts, before Bossuet shakes his head furiously down at him, and his words trail off into silence.

Courfeyrac feels his entire body stiffen as he turns to look down at Enjolras. “When were you talking to Combeferre?”

“I wasn’t.” Enjolras replies easily, picking up a cheddar bunny and dipping it into his mouth. “Bossuet showed me a text from him yesterday.”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes at his best friend, then turns to look at Bossuet for confirmation.

Enjolras is a great liar. Impeccable, really; lies just seem to slide off his tongue, easy as breathing, and he never cracks under pressure. Bossuet, however, sweats profusely and trips over his words when he trying to tell a vague mistruth, and would spill every secret he knows if someone gave him a stern enough glance. Within seconds he blurts out, “The four of us had lunch this weekend. Joly wanted to meet up but I was nervous so I said he should bring Combeferre but I didn’t want to make him a third wheel and you talk about lighting him on fire a lot so I asked Enjolras to come with me instead.” He says in one breath, before exhaling in relief. “Oh _jesus_ it was hard keeping that from you.”

Enjolras makes a noise of approval. “I’m impressed you lasted this long, honestly.”

“You-” Courfeyrac ghosts a hand over his heart. “You’ve been _consorting with the enemy?”_

Enjolras looks at Bossuet, exasperation clear in his eyes. “This is why I didn’t want to tell him.” He looks back at Courfeyrac, looking about as apologetic as he can manage. “Courfeyrac, he has some really good opinions.”

“ _Noo,_ ” Courfeyrac whines, head slumping down. Nothing wins Enjolras' heart faster than 'good opinions'. “I don’t want. I _refuse_. You’re not allowed to like him.”

“Just listen, alright? We got to talking about modern media-”

“Please stop speaking traitorous words.”

Enjolras gives him The Look. He's been giving The Look to him since they were eight, and Courfeyrac's never seen anything in his life that conveys 'I love you to death but you're a fucking ridiculous pain in my ass' more efficiently. "Aren't you the one who's usually telling  _me_ not to be so quick to judge people?"

Well, yes, but that's usually to keep Enjolras from verbally disemboweling every poor, naive person who casually says something vaguely cissexist, sexist, ableist, racist -take your pick of the 'ist's, really- in front of him. These are entirely different circumstances. Courfeyrac levels him with a humorless grin. "He said I'd  _cheat on him_."

"We know what a good person you are, Courfeyrac." Enjolras says simply. "But he doesn't, because he doesn't  _know you_."

Bossuet perks up. "So you guys should spend some time getting to know each other, right? I bet you'd like him if you just-"

Groaning, Courfeyrac throws a cheddar bunny at him, and it bounces off his shoulder pathetically. "You guys can hang out with the asshole, I'm not gonna stop you. But I'm going to be petty and immature and continue to hate him, so leave me out of it."

Enjolras and Bossuet share a look of exasperation, and Courfeyrac happily pretends not to see it.

 --- 

“ _He’s dancing with the chick in slacks, she’s a movin’ up and back_ - _“_ Courfeyrac hums, punctuating the words by shimmying his hips to the rhythm blaring from his headphones, as he shuffles down the stairs of the residence hall. “ _Oh man there ain’t nothin' like twis_ -” He reaches the ground level of the building, turns down the hall, and immediately trips over something and barely manages to catch himself before he falls flat on his face. “Whoa, what the _fuck,_ ” He starts, pulling a headphone out of his ear, before turning to examine what was lying across the floor.

Or, to be more precise, _who_.

“Oh good.” Combeferre sighs, rolling his eyes as he glares up at Courfeyrac. “And I thought this night couldn’t get any worse. How foolish of me.”

Courfeyrac stares at him. He blinks, turns away, looks down the hall, and then turns back. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Combeferre is sitting on the floor, long legs spreading across the hall, one hand crossed petulantly across his waist, and the other shoved inside a vending machine. “Are you…” Courfeyrac can’t decide if he wants to stare a little longer, laugh, or snapchat this moment to everyone he’s ever met. “Are you _stuck_?”

“No,” Combeferre deadpans, giving Courfeyrac probably the most disdainful look he’s ever seen, and that’s saying something, because Courfeyrac has watched every season of Game of Thrones. “I’m _intentionally_ sitting on the floor with my hand up a vending machine in the middle of the night.”

“Hey, whatever does it for you.” Courfeyrac grins, and Combeferre’s nostrils flare angrily. This is the best night of his life. 

Combeferre opens his mouth to respond with something appropriately angry and condescending, before pausing, staring at Courfeyrac and the handful of ziplock bags he’s clutching in confusion. “What are you doing?" 

“Marshmallow run.” Courfeyrac replies easily. Every once in a while, he and Bossuet turn their dorm into a blanket fort and eat sugary things and host a movie marathon, and halfway through Legally Blonde they realized that copious amounts of hot chocolate were necessary if they were to continue. Bossuet’s making the drink itself upstairs, and Courfeyrac volunteered to snatch some marshmallows from the shared kitchen downstairs.

Combeferre scoffs. “At three in the morning.” 

“Really. You’re gonna judge me.” Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. “The man trying to become one with the vending machine is judging _me._ ”

Combeferre looks almost embarrassed for the briefest moment, before schooling his face into something simultaneously bored and defensive. “Well I’d hate to delay the obviously crucial marshmallow crusade.” He says, and flicks his free hand at Courfeyrac like a haughty king dismissing an annoying peasant. 

“You know what, no.” Courfeyrac smiles at him, and Combeferre tilts his head in confusion. “I’m watching some of my favorite movies, eating a ton of unhealthy food, and you’re trapped in a vending machine. Even your assholey tendencies aren’t spoiling this night for me.” He nods, holding up the plastic baggies. “Now I’m gonna go get some marshmallows, and if you’re still here when I get back, maybe I’ll toss some your way. Or just at you. I haven’t decided yet.” He turns away and practically struts down the hallway.

 ---

When he makes his way back to his dorm, bags of stolen marshmallows in hand, he finds Combeferre exactly as he had left him, one hand in the machine and staring blankly at the wall across from him. While earlier he had been nothing short of delighted to see Combeferre trapped in a vending machine, the part of him that wants to hug everyone in the world feels slightly… concerned for him. It’s not _quite_ as big as the part of him that dislikes Combeferre and everything he is, but it’s enough to have him approaching Combeferre and asking, “Just curious. What’s your plan here?”

Combeferre blinks in surprise, before turning to look at him slowly. “Excuse me?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “Well, unless you wanted to live out your days as the Man in the Machine, I thought you’d have a plan for getting yourself _out_. Other than gnawing your arm off, which is probably Plan B.” He says with a grin, not guilty enough not to tease Combeferre as much as he possibly can.

Narrowing his eyes at him, Combeferre says slowly, “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I am enjoying it the exact right amount, actually.”

Combeferre lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. “I called the residence center, there was no answer. I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

“Really. That’s it. You’re going to repeatedly call the tired undergrads who may or may not be manning the front desk and hope that one of them knows where to find the keys for this particular vending machine.” From the way Enjolras and Bossuet were singing Combeferre’s praises, you’d figure he’d have a little more sense. “Well, good luck with that.”

Pushing his glasses up his nose, Combeferre steels his face into a proudly disdainful expression. “Trust me, I can handle this. You can go inhale your marshmallows now.”

Combeferre, Courfeyrac thinks absently, might be the most stubborn human being he’s ever met. Content to sit on the cold floor at almost three in the morning with his hand (no doubt uncomfortably) stuck up a vending machine slot rather than admit to needing some help. Courfeyrac lets out an exasperated exhale, and pulls his phone out of his pajama pocket.

“If you’re about to take a picture of me…” Combeferre says in a low, dangerous voice as Courfeyrac swipes his thumb across the lock screen.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m texting Craig." 

“Who?”

“He’s the night janitor slash maintenance guy on tuesdays, thursdays, fridays and sundays- he should have a key.” Courfeyrac says simply, thumbs sliding over the screen as he waits for Combeferre to say something indignant. The response doesn’t come, and when he looks up, Combeferre is just- watching him. Staring at him like he’s trying to figure out an edgeless puzzle. “Oh my god- did I find your mute button?” Courfeyrac says in amusement, realizing in an instant what Combeferre must be so surprised about. Scoffing, he continues, “Yeah, the spoiled ‘trust fund’ kid knows the janitors by name. Try not to swoon from shock.”

“No, I-“ Combeferre starts before pursing his lips, obviously considering his words carefully. “I wasn’t expecting you to help me.” He says finally, with a sort of lost look seeping into his stern gaze. “Laugh, sure, but not…" 

He trails off, looking somewhat sheepish, and the guilt pooling at the bottom of Courfeyrac’s stomach lurches uncomfortably. He still hates Combeferre, obviously, but, well. He also feels like he must come off as a really shitty person, for Combeferre to assume that he'd just leave him there without doing anything to help. 

Courfeyrac shrugs, feeling uncomfortable. "I may be an asshole, but I'm not heartless."

As Combeferre blinks up at him, Craig's response lights up his phone, and Courfeyrac welcomes the distraction. "Craig'll be over here in a minute, he has the key."

"Right." Combeferre nods, looking extremely uncomfortable. "Um, well. Thank you, Courfeyrac."

It's the first time he's ever heard Combeferre say his name, Courfeyrac realizes. He wishes he didn't like the way his voice slid over the syllables quite so much, but you can't have everything. "Yeah, um." He looks awkwardly down the empty hallway. "Did you... want me to wait with you?"

"Oh _god_ no."

Courfeyrac lets out a sigh of relief.  _Thank jesus, this is uncomfortable enough as it is._ "That's a relief." Combeferre seems to feel the same way. "So, yeah, have a nice night, or whatever."

Combeferre gives him a tight, awkward smile, and Courfeyrac turns quickly, wanting to get away from him as quickly as possible. After taking a few steps, however, he pauses, and looks back at Combeferre. "Oh, and by the way, you presumptuous piece of shit?" Combeferre looks back at him, eyes flickering from surprise to that casual disdain Courfeyrac is so used to in a matter of seconds. Courfeyrac feels much more comfortable with his hatred than his awkward gratitude, to be honest. "I take infidelity really fucking seriously. I wouldn't cheat on you."

With that, Courfeyrac turns around and walks back to his dorm, feeling strangely triumphant.

 ---

Courfeyrac holds true to the belief that sometimes you just have to take the lemons life has bludgeoned you with, make them into a casual dress blazer, and dare people to say it looks anything but classy and flattering. Or- take the lemons and make hard lemonade and drink until you don’t care anymore. Or something.

Alright, metaphors aren’t really Courfeyrac’s thing, but what’s important here is that he is walking down the six flights of stairs of his residence hall in nothing but a pair of threadbare smiley face boxers and a pair of fuzzy socks, hair getting frizzier by the second, because he forgot to take his room keys with him when he went to take a shower. Meaning, of course, he has to walk all the way to the residence center to get the spare keys. In his boxers. The residence center that is three buildings away. This is not his best day ever. He has resolved not to let it get to him, however, and holds his head high as he shuffles down the stairs.

He’s almost at the bottom floor when he hears a choked, abrupt noise coming from just above him on the stairs. He shuts his eyes tightly, fully aware that he just passed the second floor, _painfully_ aware that Combeferre lives on the second floor, and praying with all his heart and soul that the noise is coming from anyone but him.

“Let me guess,” Combeferre’s low, irritatingly amused voice drawls, and Courfeyrac finds himself pondering the merits of flinging himself down the stairs and hoping for the best. “Walk of Shame?”

Courfeyrac actually _growls,_ turning to glare at Combeferre, his hands crossed defiantly across his chest. “I live on the _sixth_ floor. I’d be walking _up_.” Thinking for a moment, he adds, “And I prefer ‘Got Laid Parade’, as I am not a slut-shaming pile of garbage.”

For the briefest moment, Combeferre almost looks _impressed_ , before he blinks and his face steels itself back to his usual apathetic half-smirk. “So, dare I ask…” He trails off, glancing significantly to Courfeyrac’s bare chest and underwear.

“Forgot my keys after I showered.” Courfeyrac mutters, suddenly feeling self-conscious under Combeferre’s judgmental gaze. Steeling himself mentally, and reminding himself that he doesn’t give a shit what Combeferre thinks of his smoking hot bod, he meets Combeferre’s eyes challengingly. “And as much as I’d _love_ to stay and chat, I have a half-naked trek to make and I kinda want to get it over with as quickly as possible.” He gives him a half wave in dismissal and turns to continue down the stairs.

He’s almost at the bottom when Combeferre speaks again. “ _Ugh,_ hold on.” He groans, and Courfeyrac turns slowly, expecting-

Oh.

Oh _fuck_.

Combeferre is standing a mere two steps above him. Shirtless. Shirtless and _tattooed_. Shirtless and tattooed and holding out his sweater like Courfeyrac is even vaguely capable of comprehending the function of a sweater when his mind is trying to wrap itself around the fact that _Combeferre_ has _tattoos._ Dark, intricate, elegant lines of ink curling around his chest and arms, equations and ratios and constellations and mandalas and Courfeyrac wants to _lick them_. They stretch and curl over tight skin and a faint pressing of muscle, bold and intoxicating against his dark skin and making Courfeyrac forget everything he’s ever said or thought about hating Combeferre. He’s seriously reconsidering flinging himself down the stairs.

“You- tattoos.” That’s right, Courfeyrac. Use your words. “You have _tattoos_.”

Combeferre snorts. “Nothing gets past you.”

“But-“ Courfeyrac stammers, hands flailing uselessly in an attempt to wordlessly communicate his shock. “You wear _sweater vests_.”

Sighing, Combeferre raises two fingers to rub at the bridge of his nose in the universal sign for lord-give-me-strength. “Do you want the sweater or not?”

For a moment, Courfeyrac has no idea what the hell Combeferre is talking about. Why would he want a sweater. Why in the name of all that is holy would he want to put on a sweater when the two of them are half naked and alone and there are tattoos to be licked. Then reality comes crashing back down on him, reminding him abruptly that he is still locked out of his room, and Combeferre is still the most aggravating human being he’s ever met in his life. He drags his eyes away from Combeferre’s collarbone - oh god, is that _hindi_ \- and meets his exasperated gaze, still very, _very_ confused. “Wait- why?"  

Combeferre falters, hesitating just slightly, and his grip tightens around the fabric. His muscles flex as he does so. Combeferre, Courfeyrac thinks absently, is probably the worst thing that's ever happened to him. “It’s cold outside. I can just go back to my room and grab another, it’s not a big deal.” 

“But… you’re my _nemesis_.”

That, at least, earns a smile from Combeferre, small though it may be. His eyes crinkle slightly in amusement as he shrugs, “I’m an asshole. I’m not heartless.” He pauses, then says reluctantly, “And I’d feel somewhat guilty if you got pneumonia when I could have done something to prevent it.”

That- yeah, okay. Courfeyrac helped him with the vending machine thing, and now Combeferre's helping him, and then they'll be even, and they can hate each other freely again. It's the better way. Courfeyrac takes the sweater from him and pulls it over his head, looking anywhere but Combeferre's bare chest, and doing his best not to breathe because breathing would mean inhaling through his nose which would mean smelling Combeferre's sweater and that would be too much for Courfeyrac's already elevated heart rate. "Thanks, I'll get it back to you when I get back."

"Sure." Combeferre says quietly, with a sort of funny look in his eyes that Courfeyrac refuses to think about. "Um, well, I won't keep you."

Courfeyrac nods jerkily, turning away from Combeferre and trying his best not to run down the stairs, away from Combeferre and his godforsaken tattoos and his clever eyes and the way taking off his sweater - _jesus fucking christ_ \- had messed up his hair and-

"Courfeyrac."  He freezes, on the bottom of the staircase, and looks up to where Combeferre is leaning over the railing. "Just so you're aware," Combeferre continues, "You malignant waste of consciousness, I am  _great_ with kids." He nods, before pulling away from the railing and walking back up to the second floor.

For some reason, as he walks the rest of the way to the residence center, Courfeyrac has a hard time keeping the smile off his face.

\--- 

“Sorry, sorry, there was a line.”Musichetta says distractedly, setting down three mugs and two large muffins in the middle of the table. “What did I miss?”

Grantaire grabs a muffin and begins peeling off the wrapper, before saying disinterestedly, “Courfeyrac’s in love or something.”

Courfeyrac, indignant and offended at the very notion, cries, “I am mind-numbing _loathing,_ Grantaire, for goodness sake.”

“Seriously.” Grantaire says, managing to bite into the bottom of his muffin while staring at him in condescending disbelief. “You just spent half the time Musichetta was in line talking about some guy’s _hands_.”

“Hands that I despise, Grantaire, pay attention." 

Chewing judgmentally, he continues, “And the other half was incoherent muttering about tattoos.”

“Tattoos that I also despise.” Courfeyrac pulls his mug of chai over to cradle in his hands. “Stupid, awful, tattoos." 

Musichetta frowns, looking between the two of them in confused amusement. “I have no idea what we’re talking about.” Technically, they  _should_ be talking about the research project the three of them are doing for their shared Art History class, but then Grantaire asked 'what happened to that asshole in your sociology class' and Courfeyrac got distracted.

Courfeyrac lets out a long, pained sigh. “I locked myself out of my room after taking a shower, and as I was walking to get a spare key I met Combeferre on the stairs and since I was only in my fuzzy socks and boxers he gave me his sweater so there’d be less of a risk of me dying of pneumonia. Which left him shirtless and _tattooed_ in front of me. It was horrifying.”

 “And by horrifying he means it made Courfeyrac want to do things I won't repeat because we're in public and there could be children listening.” Grantaire adds helpfully, smiling through a mouthful of muffin. 

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Courfeyrac whines, glaring across the table at him. “Stop _saying_ that.”

“What? You wanna jump his bones.” He looks at Musichetta, who shrugs her agreement. “Just admit it, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Okay, well-“ Courfeyrac taps at the side of his mug, and huffs his irritation as Grantaire flicks a piece of muffin at him.  “I went from hating every thing about him to wanting him to take me in a manly fashion against every hard surface in a two mile area. Allow me some time for a bit of healthy denial, will you?”

Next to him, Musichetta almost spits out a mouthful of coffee at his words, amusement clear in her eyes, and Grantaire hands her a napkin without taking his eyes off of Courfeyrac. “Deny all you want, but eventually you’re going to have to do something about this.”

“No I won’t. I’ll simply avoid him for the rest of eternity and Enjolras and Bossuet will leave me for his siren’s song and I’ll die alone.” Courfeyrac nods once, and brings his mug to his lips to drink deep from his hot chocolate. He exhales dramatically.  “There was a time I didn’t know about his tattoos. That was a simpler time, of peace and prosperity. I wanna go back.” 

"Tough kumquats."  

Courfeyrac sighs, leaning forward to say, words slurring slightly, “He just- he looks like he’d be _stupidly_ good at sex, you know? Like, it wouldn't even- you'd just be there, and it'd be the best sex of your entire goddamn life, and he'd be just bored like 'oh yeah I do this every day because I'm Combeferre and I have tattoos and am really intense about everything and I'm so tall and my hands are so nice and I've ruined you for ever having sex with anyone else, 'ta.'" He finishes lamely, swaying lightly in place.  


Musichetta and Grantaire look at each other, a mixture of concern and amusement clear on their faces. "Courfeyrac..." Musichetta says slowly. "You are aware there's no alcohol in your hot chocolate, right? Because drunken ramblings only work if you're _actually_ drunk."

"Don't ruin the illusion, 'Chetta, it's rude." Courfeyrac sighs. 

He still hasn't given the sweater back.

 ---

Over the next couple of weeks, Combeferre is thankfully absent from Courfeyrac's life, but he's well aware that Enjolras and Bossuet are spending time with his nemesis, though they try to hide it. Well, Bossuet does. Enjolras has been doing this weird thing where he deliberately does a shitty job of keeping his friendship with Combeferre a secret, like when he puts videos on his snapstory that have Combeferre laughing or talking in the background, or leaves texts from Combeferre up on his phone when he lets Courfeyrac borrow it, or mentions presentations that he went to with 'just a friend from class' as if Courfeyrac doesn't know all of his friends. Courfeyrac feels like a wife with a husband who's blatantly flaunting his affair, which he's certain is officially the weirdest way to feel about one's best friend and worst enemy, so he tries not to think about it too much. 

Eventually, yes, he'll have to deal with Combeferre making a space for himself in Courfeyrac's life, but hell if he isn't going to put that off as much as he possibly can.  Currently, he's sitting in the library, like the hundreds of other poor souls who have left their end of term projects and papers to the last minute, and still managing to procrastinate doing actual work by texting Grantaire.

_ [from: R] no way in hell that actually happened _

_ [to: R] srsly if Enjolras' mom wasn't on the schoolboard we totally would've been kicked out. so worth it X) XP XD _

_ [from R:] your disgusting overuse of emoticons aside I have so much respect for you right now _

_ [from R:] and Enjolras sounds like a criminal mastermind _

Courfeyrac is typing out 'omg u should meet him thatd be hilarious' (which it would, Grantaire's dry sarcastic wit and Enjolras'...  _Enjolrasness_ would be a wonderful combination) when he hears a low throat-clearing noise above him and his heart stops.

"I have research to do, could I work at this table?" Combeferre says, as Courfeyrac slowly looks up at him.

It's been a while since he's seen Combeferre, but the glint in his eyes and the set of his jaw apparently still have the power to invoke feelings of irritation and inconvenient attraction in Courfeyrac. He raises an eyebrow. "Are all the other tables taken?"

"Would I be asking if they _weren't?_ " Combeferre says disdainfully, and so much of Courfeyrac wants to say no, but it _is_ almost finals season.

He shrugs his compliance and Combeferre sets down an armful of dusty, awful looking books on the table with a significant thump. Courfeyrac pulls his books closer to himself, wanting to at least pretend he's being productive and studious, if only because it gives him an excuse not to look at or talk to Combeferre.

They sit like that, in uncomfortable, heavy silence, broken only by the occasional sound of pages turning and laptop keys clacking. Courfeyrac tries to focus on his psych work, he really does, but his mind can only handle so much studying and silence at a time, and his thoughts begin to wander. He thinks of Combeferre's brand new friendship with Enjolras, and how Enjolras really doesn't tolerate awful people, so Combeferre can't be  _that_ bad, right? But if Courfeyrac doesn't  _hate_ Combeferre then he'll start to  _like_ Combeferre, and then he'll eventually have to deal with his attraction to Combeferre, and then- well, nothing good can come from that, not-

“Look,” Combeferre says suddenly, pulling Courfeyrac from his thoughts with an icy glare. “If you didn’t want me to sit here, you really could have just said.”

Courfeyrac looks up at him, confused. Where the hell did that come from? “I- it’s fine, you can sit, honestly I don’t mind-“

Scowling, Combeferre hisses, “Then will you _stop_ distracting me?”

“I-“ Courfeyrac is, if possible, even more confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Combeferre raises that familiar judgmental eyebrow of his, and deadpans, “Cute.” With a sigh, he rubs at the corner of his eye in exasperation, before saying slowly. “The moaning noises, Courfeyrac. Not as appreciated as you might think.”

Courfeyrac, for a moment, thinks Combeferre is trying to tell a joke. A joke Courfeyrac doesn’t really understand, but a joke nonetheless, because while he might have considered doing quite a few extreme things in the past few minutes (lighting his textbook on fire, switching majors, curling into the fetal position and becoming a permanent performance art installation in this section of the library), moaning in Combeferre’s general direction never quite made the list. But Combeferre’s gaze doesn’t waver, so Courfeyrac responds carefully, “I’m not making any noises. Or, any non-speech noises. I’m _definitely_ not moaning at you.”

“It really isn’t funn-” Combeferre starts, before a low, wrecked moan comes from the shelves behind him, and they both freeze. “Oh.”

The two of them fall silent just in time to hear a thump, a sharp, shaky inhale of breath, and a muffled whine, and Courfeyrac feels his eyes widen. As if spending time with Combeferre weren’t awkward enough, the universe has apparently decided to add _sex noises_ to the equation. Combeferre blinks in realization, and immediately looks back down to his books. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, has to take a moment to properly freak out.

“Those are sex sounds. Sounds of sex. People are having sex in the depths of the library.” Courfeyrac laughs, slightly hysterical. He has had nowhere _near_ enough sleep to be dealing with this right now. “I mean, the _library_? Stacks of dusty books cannot be conducive to good sex.”

Combeferre shrugs, before chuckling weakly, “Don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it.” 

Courfeyrac stares at him. Combeferre blinks once, confused, then his eyes widen as he realizes the implication of his words, before swallowing roughly.

It’s incredibly possible Courfeyrac’s lungs have stopped working, as his brain seems to be lacking a fair amount of oxygen. It’s just. He cannot be expected to listen to people have sex without thinking of sex. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t have the time to think about it, and _definitely_ does not need to be thinking about Combeferre in relation to sex. In fact, Courfeyrac had been trying to think of literally anything else in the world before Combeferre had to go and make words with his mouth so Courfeyrac can’t think of anything _but_ Combeferre having sex with his tattoos and his height and his hands and Combeferre’s still looking flustered across from him, biting down on his lip cautiously with his fingers caressing the edges of worn pages and Courfeyrac is going to _pass out._

“I’m gonna get some drink.” He blurts out, and Combeferre raises his head to look at him. “I mean- I’m going to get something to drink. From the cafe. I need- I need to not be here at this moment.” 

Combeferre blinks at him, before closing his book. “You know what, I think I’ll come with you.”

Which is kind of the opposite of what he wanted (peace and solitude to calm himself down so his clothes would stop feeling so tight and his skin would stop feeling so hot), and Courfeyrac blinks at him. “Wait- what? I mean- _what_?”

Combeferre stares at him incredulously. “…I would also really like not to be here right now.”

“Someone might take our table.”

“I’m strangely okay with that.” Combeferre swings his bag over his shoulders and inclines his head in a silent indication for Courfeyrac to lead the way.

 ---

"So." Courfeyrac says, as they stand as far apart as they can while staying in the cafe line. "Do you prefer your tepid water with beans or leaves?"

"Excuse me?"

"Coffee or tea."

"Ah." Combeferre shuffles slightly, obviously uncomfortable. "It depends, I suppose."

Courfeyrac nods. "I like tea, myself, but coffee is sort of a necessary evil, I guess. First time I drank coffee I thought they must have made it wrong because it tasted so much like death, but I guess I got used to it in time."

Combeferre nods, slowly, glancing cautiously at Courfeyrac. "We don't  _have_ to talk, you know."

"Don't we?" Courfeyrac asks, as the line shifts forward. "I mean, you're besties with my bestie. We're going to have to interact eventually." _Another necessary evil_ , Courfeyrac thinks reluctantly,  _at least it'll make Enjolras happy_.

"Oh." Combeferre grimaces. "You may have a point."

\---

"So, uh, what's your major?" Courfeyrac asks, as they sit at the weirdly sticky table in the cafe, the only one that had been available, awkwardly nursing their drinks.

Combeferre adjusts his glasses. "I'm pre-med."

"Oh, that makes sense, since you... live on the pre-med floor."

"Right." Combeferre says, before they fall into silence again.

Courfeyrac has never felt more awkward in his life. He can't believe it was actually _easier_ to talk to Combeferre when he could openly dislike him. Courfeyrac clears his throat, glancing to where Combeferre's sleeves are pushed up slightly, and a hint of ink peeks out. "So, do you have, like- the Hippocratic oath on you somewhere?"

"No, mostly scientific names and equations."

"Oh, you like science?" Is out of Courfeyrac's mouth before he can think about it, and he barely resists thumping his head against the table. This is the worst conversation he's ever had in his life, and that  _includes_ when Enjolras' father asked him for advice on how to interact with his own son.

Combeferre looks vaguely amused by the question, though, and nods. "It's always interested me. I just recently decided to use my affinity to help people."

"That's nice of you." Courfeyrac says, and means it. It's possible Combeferre isn't  _actually_ the spawn of Satan. He sighs, resigned, and looks Combeferre dead in the eyes. "Can I ask you something kind of personal?"

"...if you want." Combeferre looks apprehensive as he takes a slow drink of his coffee.

Courfeyrac nods, taking a deep breath. "What the  _hell_  is so special about that seat in our lecture hall."

Lips quirking upward, Combeferre shrugs. "It's my seat." When Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, he sighs, and continues. "I used to sit there everyday and the day you took it, well, I was not in the  _best_ mood. I accidentally slept through a test."

" _Shit_."  _  
_

Combeferre nods grimly. "I made it up, but with a penalty."

 _And_ there's that pesky guilt Courfeyrac seems to be feeling more and more often around Combeferre. Not that he did anything _that_ bad, just made him move over by one chair, but still. "Well, in my defense, I only sat there because I was trying to avoid my ex-girlfriend, who had recently dumped me  _through snapchat_ , and who I used to sit with in class."

"Yeah, Enjolras mentioned that." Combeferre says simply. "During one of his 'Reasons You're Not Allowed to Hate Courfeyrac' lectures."

Courfeyrac brightens immediately, feeling a rush of affection for his best friend. "He told you that you're not allowed to hate me?"

"What, he never tried to convince you not to hate _me_?" Combeferre frowns. "Well that's just blatant favoritism."

"Eh, he might have mentioned it once." He runs his thumb along the rim of his coffee lid, humming thoughtfully. "I suppose I could be convinced to tolerate you, for Enjolras' sake."

"How magnanimous of you."

He drinks from his chai, considering everything he knows about Combeferre. He's gorgeous, he has tattoos that make Courfeyrac feel weak at the knees, he's got that deadpan snark Courfeyrac likes so much, and he seems like a pretty decent human being. Honestly, usually Enjolras liking him would be enough for Courfeyrac; Enjolras is a great judge of character (just look at his choice in a best friend). Still, though, there's something bothering Courfeyrac. "Why did you call me a trust fund kid? Not that there's anything wrong with having a trust fund, but. It's a weird assumption to make, and you said it like most people say 'spawn of the devil'."

Combeferre looks almost guilty. "I... um, I went to a really pretentious private school, on a scholarship. After a while you start to assume everyone has a trust fund, especially the people looking entitled as they take your lecture hall seat, with book bags that cost more than a macbook pro."

 _Oh_. Courfeyrac looks down at his (admittedly grossly overpriced) leather bag, dropped carelessly on the floor next to him. "It was a present from my great uncle. He's filthy rich."

"Enjolras told me that, too." Combeferre says, rolling his eyes. "He also told me about your sisters, and the thing junior year with the chickens, and how many times you got him out of trouble with his parents, and that  _he_ actually does have a trust fund, but you don't." _  
_

"Jesus, did he tell you my blood type, too?"

"O negative." Combeferre says without hesitation, and Courfeyrac can't tell if it's a lucky guess, or Enjolras is just a very dedicated friend. He has a feeling it's the latter.

"Well, at least he was thorough."

\--- 

Courfeyrac slides an earbud into his right ear, rocking back and forth slightly on his heels outside of the lecture hall. Setting his music to shuffle, he glances at the time and wonders what’s keeping the TA; he’s usually punctual, if grumpy. As he hears ‘r _ent love, run in circles’_ ease into the upbeat melody, he hums along, dropping his leather bag onto the floor unceremoniously (and then wincing as he remembers it’s got his laptop shoved inside it). Sighing, he prepares himself to wait. 

“Oh my god.” Says a voice from behind him, right as the second chorus kicks in, and he doesn’t ignore the fluttering in his chest so much as sort of affectionately shove it away. Since he and Combeferre came to a reluctant understanding, Enjolras has taken to sending Courfeyrac increasingly endearing snapchats of Combeferre talking about moths, or playing the piano, or making shitty puns about vegetables and insects. It's not really surprising, all things considered, that Courfeyrac falls for Combeferre a little bit more every time he sees him, but that doesn't mean it's not a nuisance. “Courfeyrac, class doesn’t start for- _forty three minutes_.”

Turning to grin at Combeferre - and taking a quick moment to notice the way the dark green of Combeferre’s sweater compliments the rich tone of his skin - Courfeyrac shrugs. “I had some time to kill.”

Combeferre looks like he’s trying not to smile as he rolls his eyes in response. “The hall isn’t even open.”

“It should be.” Courfeyrac says, frowning slightly. “Sean the TA is usually here by now; since it’s the first class in the hall he has to come in beforehand to turn on the projecting equipment and the heaters.”

"He's probably at home, actually, since class was canceled. There was an email sent out, but I'm guessing you haven't seen it."

Ahh. Well that would explain it. Courfeyrac sighs, picking up his book bag. "So what are you doing here, then?"

Inhaling slowly, Combeferre admits, "Enjolras texted me, said I'd find you here."

"That boy needs to find a hobby, jesus-" Courfeyrac pauses, as his phone interrupts him with a loud chime. Unsurprisingly, it's a text from Enjolras, but he almost drops it when he reads what it says.

_ [from: el Esposo] Just ask him out already, Courfeyrac. _

Courfeyrac's jaw drops. He's...  _matchmaking_.

"Ah. Yes." Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac realizes he said that last bit out loud as he looks up at Combeferre, who's got a sort of quiet panic in his eyes. "I might have mentioned how attractive I found you, once or twice. Something about your hair, as well."

Courfeyrac laughs, or at least, it's meant to be a laugh, but comes out as a kind of overwhelmed, shell-shocked wheeze. "Really?"

Nodding, Combeferre pushes his glasses slightly higher on his nose. "Though I've been assured it's nothing compared to your 'three day meltdown about tattoos'."

"Oh." Courfeyrac is going to murder Enjolras in his sleep. "Anything else he told you about me?"

"Just that you really like those thin pancakes that aren't quite crepes at the breakfast place across from the Co-Op, and that I should stop pretending I dislike anything about you and ask you out. Ideally to eat thin pancakes." Combeferre inhales shakily, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. "So, um, Courfeyrac, since we don't have class today, would you like to eat thin pancakes with me? In a non-hostile, romantic sort of way?"

Courfeyrac stares at him. His brain puts up a good fight, but it can't possibly understand what's going on. How they got here. How something began with stolen seats and vending machines and led to Combeferre asking Courfeyrac on a date and Courfeyrac unable to even consider saying no. Combeferre's teeth catch his bottom lip, and Courfeyrac's mind flips from  _what-is-happening-oh-god-what-is-happening_ to _I'_ _ve-never-wanted-to-kiss-someone-so-badly-in-my-entire-life_. He considers waiting, he really does. By all rational standards of human interaction, he should wait until after their first date to see if Combeferre even  _wants_ to kiss him.

Honestly, after all this time, waiting until after they've eaten seems superfluous. "I- can I kiss you now? Thin pancakes later?"

Combeferre's lips part slightly, in shock, before he rolls his eyes and sighs reluctantly, taking a step towards Courfeyrac. "If you must."

Courfeyrac's mind is halfway to forming an appropriately indignant and sarcastic response to that when Combeferre kisses him. He does it gently, two fingers under Courfeyrac's chin angling it upwards, a soft pressure against his lips. Courfeyrac's heart stutters uselessly in his chest and his eyes flicker closed as he kisses back slowly. Combeferre's lips are chapped and a little wet and Courfeyrac smiles against them and it doesn't feel like any first kiss Courfeyrac has ever had, awkward and unsure or sloppy- it feels like it was always meant to be like this; Combeferre's fingers a soft pressure against his chin and Courfeyrac's hesitant hand gripping at Combeferre's shirt to steady himself.

The kiss is, well. They're outside an empty sociology hall in which Courfeyrac had once thought about kicking Combeferre as hard as he could in the shin, and there's the sound of someone blasting Mexican radio down the hall, and it's over much too quickly, but it feels like the start of something  _amazing._

Then they're pulling apart and Combeferre's looking at him with those intense, clever, eternally amused eyes and Courfeyrac is exhaling shakily and everything just feels sort of perfect. He smiles, bright and open, because he's never been able to contain his happiness and he doesn't plan on starting now, as he looks up at Combeferre. "You still can't have the seat."

The way Combeferre laughs before he leans in to kiss him again is quite possibly the best sound Courfeyrac's ever heard.

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentine's day :)


End file.
